


Two Ways That These Things Can Go

by RedTeamShark



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blindfolds, Bondage, Deaf Clint Barton, Established Relationship, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Safe Sane and Consensual, Safewords, Sensation Play, Sensory Deprivation, clint barton has a trust kink, is trust a kink?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:07:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27128992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedTeamShark/pseuds/RedTeamShark
Summary: He hates the idea of giving up control, of letting someone else call the shots, of losing his senses… and yet he craves it. He craves situations where someone has the ability to lock him down and not let him out no matter how much he screams or begs, even when the thought of it makes him sick to his stomach.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 10
Kudos: 53
Collections: After Dark Presents Nutvember 2020





	Two Ways That These Things Can Go

**Author's Note:**

> Title Inspo: The Good, The Bad, And The Dirty by Panic! At The Disco
> 
> Nutvember rides glorious in this house tonight.

Oh, god, he really is going crazy.

Or falling in love, but really--same difference.

Clint closes his eyes, listening as Bucky moves around the room, his fingers curling over the edge of the mattress. Getting ready for bed, getting ready for a normal night next to his boyfriend. Nothing weird there.

“Hey.”

His voice doesn’t sound like his own, but he hears Bucky’s shuffling feet stop, so it must be him that spoke.

“What’s up?” The bed dips next to him and a hand touches his. Proximity, warmth, trust.

Yeah, he’s going crazy, but he was already halfway there the first time he looked into blue eyes and said _let’s go to bed together_ and didn’t mean sex.

“I wanna try something.” Clint opens his eyes, glances over and wonders if Bucky can hear his heartbeat. If Bucky can hear it in his chest, or in the way his voice trembles, or in the way he can’t relax his hand enough to let go of the mattress.

“Yeah? Do I get to know what this something is?” Light, teasing, all the calmness that Clint can’t feel right now. His fingers skate up Clint’s tense arm, over his shoulder and to the back of his neck. Stroke up into his hair, a gesture that usually turns him soft and quiet.

This time he flinches.

“I trust you,” Clint bites out, before either of them have time to acknowledge the twitch. “I trust you _a lot_ and--and I wanna prove it.”

“Clint…” Bucky bites his lip, leans in until his forehead bumps Clint’s shoulder. “You don’t have to…”

 _You don’t have to prove it_ is probably what he means, but there’s an undertone in those words. _You don’t have to trust me_. Because Bucky doesn’t trust himself most days. Because Clint doesn’t trust _anyone_. Not easily, not often, and not even the man he’s in love with, not really.

“Let me…” He makes his hand move, takes Bucky’s and squeezes, swallows down the shaking in his voice. “Let me explain.”

It’s late already and by the time he runs out of words, out of explanations and answers to Bucky’s questions and excuses for why he is the way he is, the clock has swung around to early. They curl up in bed together, Bucky at Clint’s back, arm secured around his waist, and his lips press to the back of his neck, just below his hairline.

“Okay. Say when,” Bucky whispers, finally.

* * *

Just because he said he wanted it doesn’t mean he’s not terrified.

Clint breathes slow and deep, stretching out, working his muscles to be loose and compliant. He sort of feels like he gets before a job, before a mission, before throwing his body into danger… except the buzz this time isn’t just adrenaline waiting to come out and he knows it.

“You look like you’re getting ready to spar.” Bucky smiles from the bed, gesturing with one hand. “Come on, let’s go over it again.”

“One more chance for me to chicken out?” Clint bends forward, grasps his ankles and feels the pull in his calves and the backs of his thighs as his muscles stretch out.

“It’s not chickening out, it’s being safe.”

“Okay, fine.” He stands, flops back onto the bed and pillows his head in Bucky’s lap. “I’m going to take my hearing aids out. Then you’re going to cuff my hands to the bed. Then you’re going to cuff my feet. And then you’re going to blindfold me…” He swallows down his nerves, tries to make his voice low and sultry instead of shaky. “And do whatever you want to me.”

“And,” Bucky taps him lightly on the nose, “if you say _stop_ at any point I’m going to take the blindfold off and uncuff you and you can put your hearing aids back in. And decide what happens next from there.” He bites his lip, flexing his fingers slightly. “I know you don’t want to know what I’m going to do to you--it’s part of the thrill, I get that--but Clint, I’m _not_ going to hurt you.”

“You sound like Steve.” He leans up, presses a kiss to the corner of Bucky’s mouth. “All righteous and shit.”

“Eat my ass, arrow guy. I sound like how I’m _supposed_ to sound when we’re trying a new thing in bed. Understanding and shit.”

“Same difference.” Clint sits up so Bucky can stand, scoots over to the head of the bed and settles back against the pillows. Just because it’s his idea, his fantasy, doesn’t mean he’s not fucking terrified.

Because he knows that the things he likes and the things he hates exist in contrast. _Internal conflict_ is kind of his schtick, along with _archery_ and _coffee_ and _pizza_. He hates the idea of giving up control, of letting someone else call the shots, of losing his senses… and yet he craves it. He craves situations where someone has the ability to lock him down and not let him out no matter how much he screams or begs, even when the thought of it makes him sick to his stomach.

He should probably see a therapist about this shit, but having kinky sex with his boyfriend is more fun.

Pushing all of that to the side, he reaches up, feels the cuffs at either side of the headboard. Well worn leather attached by a thin but strong chain. It won’t hurt him unless he _really_ pulls against it and they’ve used cuffs of this same material before. Those are fine. The blindfold is on the bedside table, he’d picked it out himself. Soft black fabric, not too thick or heavy. Small enough to only cover his eyes, it wouldn’t go over his nose at all. Clint reaches up slowly, pulling out his right hearing aid first, putting it onto the table. He looks over to Bucky, waiting patiently beside the bed, and smiles.

“No more chickening out now.”

The left hearing aid pops out and joins the right one on the table and Clint lies back, closes his eyes and tries to adjust to not hearing anything.

The weight on the bed dips slightly as Bucky gets on, a hand touching the middle of his chest. Slowly, fingers trail along his right arm, up to his wrist and he keeps his eyes shut as he’s cuffed into place. Bucky’s fingers move back down, over his chest and up to the left, and just like that, Clint’s stuck. Well, probably not, he’s flexible as hell and strong enough, he could--

He won’t, though, he’s going to pretend like he hasn’t spent years training to get out of situations like these.

The fingers move back down his arm, over his chest and down, the muscles of his stomach twitching with the gentle touch. Bucky toys with the hem of his pants, teasing his fingertips inside the loose fabric, skating them along Clint’s skin and bringing goosebumps to him. They’re old sweatpants, not the sexiest clothes he owns, but he doesn’t give a shit if they get literally ripped off him, and there’s nothing on beneath them. Bucky’s fingers skim along his hip and just touch his pubic hair, just close enough to make him throb with the urge to become hard, before pulling out of his pants and moving down his leg.

Clint keeps his eyes closed as his ankles are cuffed, that same moving touch from one leg to the other, sliding up the clothed inside of his thigh, cupping him briefly through his pants before sliding down the other leg. 

He feels the groan vibrate in his throat when he’s fully bound to the bed. Bucky’s fingers climb up his torso again, brush over his neck, and cup the side of his face. Clint finally opens his eyes.

 _“I’m going to put the blindfold on now. Yes?_ ” he reads on Bucky’s lips, nods his head once shallowly in compliance.

The soft cloth secures over his head and Clint drops back against the pillow, fighting to breathe like a normal person, to not gasp and heave like he just finished sprinting a marathon. Bucky’s touch stays at the side of his face, soft and soothing, and eventually the initial panic of sensory deprivation passes, leaving him shaking in a different way. Anticipation thrums in him, the knowledge that soon, hopefully _very soon_ , he’ll be touched.

He doesn’t know what to expect, where it will be, when it’s coming… Clint’s heart starts beating faster, his pulse pounding in his throat making it difficult to swallow. Panic starts to come back, starts to hitch his breath in his lungs and make his hands shake because oh, god, Bucky left, something happened and he’s here, tied up and blind and deaf and _helpless_ and no one is going to find him--

Something touches him, then, and he thinks he gasps but maybe he screams. Warmth and wetness closes around his nipple, sucks lightly, nips and it’s a thousand times more sensitive than any other time Bucky’s played with his nipples. The mouth pulls back and cool air blows on it, pebbling the sensitive skin into hardness. Clint swallows, slightly more grounded, and waits for the same attention on the other side.

Instead a hand trails down his stomach, slips into his pants and curls around his thigh. Clint jerks, his legs trying to close, then trying to open wider, able to do neither. He knows it’s Bucky’s right hand, warm flesh against his, thumb brushing along the curve of his leg. The touch is firm and Clint’s heart picks up faster as he slides back up and out of his pants, there and gone too quickly.

It continues, Bucky’s mouth and his hands on different parts of Clint’s body, never in one place for long enough to satisfy. Never with enough pattern for him to guess where the next touch will be. But as promised, every one is gentle, brings only pleasure and no pain. Fingers thread into his hair and stroke, lips press to his neck and leave soft little bites, cool metal fingers trail down his side and back up, lighting up every nerve along the way. 

A hand presses against his chest, Bucky’s weight on the bed shifting, changing, the dip of the mattress moving lower. He can feel warmth on either side of him, his boyfriend’s bare thighs bracketing his hips, and then there’s the distinct feeling of a knife against his skin. Clint goes still as death, not even breathing, as his pants are cut off. He doesn’t relax, can’t relax, until both of Bucky’s hands are on him again and he knows the knife is gone.

“I trust you,” he says, because it needs to be said. Clint exhales, feels the hands running up and down his legs hesitate, and tries to figure out how loudly he’s talking. “It’s okay. Keep going.”

The movement on his skin starts again, one warm flesh hand and one cold metal one, sliding from his knees up to his thighs and back down. Bucky’s left hand on his left leg and right on his right, that means the other man is sitting with his back to him, kneeling over his stomach and that helps, that grounds him in where he is and what’s happening.

The hands slide up his thighs and over his hips, along the sides of his stomach and he has a moment to contemplate telling Bucky not to sit on his face, not to make it so he can’t _breathe_ for christssake _please_ , when the weight on the bed changes again.

He’s left alone for endless seconds to calm down, to contemplate how far Bucky might push him. _I’m not going to hurt you_ is easy to say, harder to do. There are so many goddamn ways to turn him into a panicked mess and Bucky probably knows less than half of them to avoid and really leaving him alone with his brain is the top of that list but here he is in that very situation not even able to _see_ \--

Ice cold touches him and Clint yelps, squirms as much as he can, feels the slide of it against his skin. Colder than Bucky’s metal hand and wet and-- “Is that ice?” he might ask, his mouth certainly moves around the words, and he sucks in a harsh breath as whatever-the-cold-thing-is circles his nipple and then trails down the center of his chest, stops dangerously close to his dick. Little rivulets of cold water trickle along his skin and he shivers, arching his back off the bed to try and redirect the stream.

Warm air puffing against him--Bucky laughing, he thinks--is the only warning he gets before his cock is swallowed by a hot mouth and this time Clint _definitely_ yells, he can feel it in his lungs. Bucky swallows him whole and comes up again, delicious suction that he desperately tries to chase after as the mouth leaves his cock. Two hands press to his hips and hold him down, lock him in place as a skilled tongue draws precome from the head of his cock with the barest of touches.

Then it’s gone again, leaving him shaking and possibly sobbing, every nerve on fire waiting for the next touch.

Another eternity passes in the void, his brain quiet for once, anticipatory but not panicked. The return of sensation to his skin is so feather-light, Clint’s almost not sure it’s there. He strains to feel it, tries to open himself up to it, and realizes slowly that something is just barely tickling against the skin on his stomach, trailing up to his chest or down to his thighs on occasion. His head falls back, air puffing out of his lungs and sucking back in as he takes the gentle reprieve, as his overworked mind tries to fill in what’s touching him now and comes up blissfully empty.

The gentle touch moves up and climbs higher than his chest, presses softly against the side of his face. Clint turns to it, inhales and sense memory takes over, throwing him back in time. That’s Bucky’s _nice_ cologne, the rich heady scent he only wears on the formalest of occasions, which means that the thing touching him must be Bucky’s red silk tie and Clint throbs and thinks he whimpers at the memories that come with that.

Dragging Bucky forward by the tie and kissing him, desperate and needy, whispering _I love you_ over and over between each one because they’d been fucking for months and Clint couldn’t pretend it was just to work out adrenaline and take the edge off anymore, not when he had to spend all night looking at Bucky dressed like _that_ and thinking about how much it’d crush him if someone else took the man home ever again.

“I love you,” Clint says now, speaking into the tie, his throat aching with the effort to get the words out. “Fuck, I love you so much.”

The silk against his cheek presses a little firmer, Bucky’s hand holding it there as lips press to his. Clint can’t see or hear, but he can _feel_ , and he feels Bucky’s lips move, feels the _I love you_ that the other man returns to him. His every nerve sings with it, his eyes growing wet behind the blindfold, emotions overwhelmed.

Shifting weight that he barely notices thanks to the lips on his, and then a cool metal hand on his cock a moment before warmth and wetness swallows him. Clint’s brows furrow for a moment, confused and a little concerned with how Bucky is kissing him and sucking him off, and then it hits him like a ton of bricks, punches a noise out of him that he’s sort of glad he can’t hear.

Bucky rides him slow and steady, still kissing him, still holding his face with one hand and he’s so keyed up and on edge Clint knows he’s not going to last long enough to matter, but this--

It’s their almost unspoken agreement, Clint likes penetration and Bucky doesn’t, he respects that, he doesn’t try, he doesn’t _ask_ , he pretends not to know that Bucky sometimes fingers himself to get off because he’s given Clint a hard _no_ on it and Clint isn’t going to ever push an issue. He’s totally content to get fucked and to give handjobs and blowjobs and grind against Bucky like a couple of desperate, horny teenagers fumbling around in the backseat of the car because whatever reason Bucky has for not wanting to do that, all he needs to say is _no_ and it’s off the table.

Unless Bucky changes his mind.

Clint’s hips jerk up of their own accord, meeting Bucky’s easy rhythm and he’s already blind but if the cloth came off right now he wouldn’t be able to see anything, his whole brain is whiting out with pleasure.

He must be screaming and crying and overwhelmed with pleasure, and it might make him pass out. One moment he’s on the highest peak of bliss he’s possibly ever experienced, leaning too far over the edge and ready to overbalance and dive headlong into whatever comes next, and the next moment…

The next moment Clint’s aware of, he can see again, the dim lights of the bedroom. Bucky is lying next to him, breathing hard and nosing into his neck, his tie still clutched in one hand. His other hand is up by the headboard and after a second of fumbling, Clint’s left wrist comes free of the cuff.

He undoes his right wrist and grabs his hearing aids from beside the bed, puts them in and turns them on. Everything goes from absolute silence to too loud for a moment, even his own heartbeat overwhelming him, before it all settles back into a normal volume. Clint flops back against the pillows, turning his head and kissing Bucky softly. “You with me?”

“‘m s’posed to ask you that,” Bucky mumbles, kissing him gently, biting his lip briefly. “Good?”

“Amazing. Are you--did you--” He swallows, shifts as much as his bound ankles will let him, and wraps his arms around Bucky’s shoulders. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Wanted to. Had to… to know that I could. Even though you never ask.”

It’s probably something they should talk about, but Clint’s tired, overwhelmed and twitching and he knows he needs to clean up, they both do, but bed is so much nicer than shower. “Blanket,” he mutters, shifting as Bucky pulls it up, covers them both and snuggles into Clint’s side. “Love you, Bucky.”

“Love you, Clint.” Bucky swallows, kissing his collarbone gently. “Trust you.”

And that, more than any conversation they could have, tells Clint exactly why Bucky was willing to push himself past a previously established limit. Because trust has to go both ways. Love has to go both ways.

**Author's Note:**

> I could be persuaded to agree that this takes place in the same universe as [Deliver One Of My Demands](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27105187) (and to write some more in that same universe, if we're being honest...). But timelines in vaguely-connected smut stories are for suckers.
> 
> I might be a sucker.


End file.
